


Mad World (Supernatural -Destiel)

by SingingFlames



Category: Supernatural
Genre: ALL THE ANGST, Alternate Universe - Croatoan/Endverse, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Castiel Survives Diversionary Attack, Character Death, Jason Mann, M/M, Mad World, No Help From Current!Dean, No Interference From Zachariah, Song fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-26
Updated: 2016-11-26
Packaged: 2018-09-02 09:50:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8662837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SingingFlames/pseuds/SingingFlames
Summary: Endverse happens without current!Dean’s involvement. Castiel survives and must deal with both the emotional and physical trauma of that encounter.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is an Endverse AU, in which Zachariah never sent current!Dean there and events played out exactly as seen in the episode. This is my entry for two Tumblr challenges. One was a Jason Mann’s song fic challenge. My song was “Mad World”, which is a wonderfully sad song. One line that always stood out to me was “The dreams in which I’m dying are the best I’ve ever had,” which inspired the dream segments of this.

Castiel dreams.

Not normal, fanciful dreams. Instead, memories flit through his head, snippets of images running through his mind.

He remembers fighting the Croatoans. The realization that Dean led them to that window, used them as a distraction. Dean abandoned them. Abandoned him. He accepts this. It’s been so long since Dean cared for him as he once did.

He remembers Dean looking past him, through him. Eyes that once held such beautiful love, now vacant. They converse, but it’s not the same, not like it was. Dean orders him about - another soldier in the war. Whatever it is, Castiel agrees. “Alright.” That’s all he has left to give.

He remembers the missions that consume Dean. Day and night, always fighting and planning, never stopping. This operation is everything. It gnaws at Dean, devours his every thought. There is no room for other concerns, other feelings. No room for love.

* * *

Castiel wakes.

He is buried under a partially collapsed ceiling. A crossbeam lays over him, bearing the brunt of the ceiling’s weight, saving his life. A chunk of concrete pins his arm. Shoving at it, he stifles a scream at the white-hot flash of pain racing up his limb. No screams. Not here. The Croats may still be close. They believe him dead. He will not disabuse them of that belief.

Biting his lip, so hard he tastes blood, he shoves at the concrete again. The chunk shifts aside. He swoons, nausea flooding him. He pants. White stars flash behind his eyelids.

Minutes later (or is it hours, days? time is meaningless) he opens his eyes. He moves, turns about, rubble all around him. His arm is bleeding, weak, barely has any strength. There is a gap above him. He pushes his good hand through. Rubble falls, clattering. Any Croats surely heard that. He pauses and listens. He would pray but gave up on that years ago.

Silence.

Breath laboring, he continues pushing out of his concrete tomb. If they come, they come. He’ll be better off out and free.

He stumbles clear, clutching his arm. It bleeds and throbs. So do a dozen other cuts and bruises. He rips some strips off his tattered jacket and fashions them into a bandage. It’s filthy, covered in dust and blood, but it has to do for now. He’ll change it later, if he survives long enough. He needs to return home.

But not yet.

He searches, stumbling, trying for silence. Thankfully, the Croats have moved on and don’t hear him. Then he finds what he wants, lying amidst flowers and shrubbery, looking still and almost peaceful for the first time in years.

Dean.

Castiel shuffles to him, falls to his knees, pleas tumbling from his lips. He touches Dean’s face. It’s cold, cold and stiff. Not caring who hears, he cries out, sobs. He stumbles to his feet, the world swimming around him. He can’t see, can’t think.

Blackness swallows him.

* * *

Castiel dreams.

He remembers seeking physical comfort when and as he could. There are many women in camp eager to escape this horrible world, escape this reality, if only for a night. He understands. He wishes to escape as well, but not from something so simple. He remembers a certain woman, one who says she loves him. She offers to stay with him, always be there for him. He refuses her, assuring her that it isn’t her, but him. He wonders if his expression was as hurt as hers, when Dean said the same to him.

“It’s not you. It’s me.”

He remembers Dean screaming out to Michael, shouting his acceptance to the stars. Dean’s cries are ignored. The hunter curses angels, curses Heaven and ‘every damn thing’ associated with them. He storms back inside. He doesn’t look at Castiel. He doesn’t go to their room that night. Dean never shares a room with Castiel again.

He remembers Dean in the weeks and months after Sam says yes. The booze, the painful silences, the short temper, the apathy. Castiel tries, he reaches out as best he can to the man he loves, but Dean slips away. They share few words. The ones they do share mean less and less.

Castiel is losing Dean, but cannot stop it.

* * *

Castiel wakes.

He can’t look at Dean’s body. He pulls himself to his feet, stumbles, grasps the wall. He pants, gasping for air. One unsteady foot at a time, he leaves. He pauses at the door, glances back. Tears sting his eyes.

“Goodbye… Dean.”

It’s over a half mile to where they left the vehicles; each step is agony. He shivers, a chill coursing through him, then pants, sweltering and sweating. His joints ache, beyond his wounds. Every movement is torture. He’s feverish. How long since the attack? He doesn’t know.

He feels his bandaged arm. Pain flares up. It burns. He can smell the sickly sweet reek of infection. He needs to get home, clean it, get medicine. It’ll kill this frail body if he doesn’t.

He finds the vehicles. Leans against the first one, exhausted. Catching his breath, he climbs in his truck and starts it. He blinks blurry eyes clear. Time to go home.

If there is still a home to go to.

He stares at the empty road, the thought settling in his head. Dean is dead. Risa’s dead. The others, dead. Lucifer’s all but won. The world’s time is over. It truly is the End. If the camp still stands, it won’t for long.

But where else could he go? He drives, trembling and panting, until exhaustion forces him to stop.

* * *

Castiel dreams.

He remembers their firsts. Their first time in bed, the awkward tangle of limbs as he figures out what to do. Their first kiss, his body thrilling at the touch while his mind tries to comprehend the sensations. The first time their fingers laced together. He stares at the digits in wonder. It feels so right.

He remembers Dean singing to the radio, and how he questions the lyrics. One could not blame one’s own organs and how could a heart be wild? Dean laughs and asks him to never change. These few moments of peace, these handful of times Dean laughs are precious. Such a rare thing, but it fills him with joy. He treasures the smiles, so abundant when they first meet, but later, dwindling as the years wear on.

He remembers his death. He faces down his older brother, knowing that Raphael will strike him down with barely a thought. The prophet, Chuck, stands besides him, tries to comfort him with a hand on his shoulder. He doesn’t gain strength from that little gesture. He gains strength from the memory of a single man: Dean. A human who stands up for his convictions, regardless of the odds, who refuses to compromise, who is passionate for justice. This human has given meaning to his own existence. He faces his death for this man and he is calm. He is at peace.

* * *

Castiel wakes.

The fever is worse. Shivers ravage his body, cold sweats following shortly after. His joints burn. He wishes just to sleep again, to lay down and close his eyes. Maybe Dean will visit his dreams again. It’s the only way to see him now.

He looks at the seat, eyes burning, sleep pulling at him. He can’t do it. To sleep now invites death. The Croats could find him. The fever could overtake him. Dean would not give in. He won’t either.

He drives. As he approaches the camp, smoke rises up through the trees. He pulls over behind some brush. Creeping forward through the trees and undergrowth, he nears the encampment. The pungent odor of smoke chokes him. He coughs, muffling it in his crook of his elbow. His eyes water. Breaking through the brush, he spies the remnants of the camp.

It’s gone.

Bodies, shredded and burnt, are scattered across the ground. The buildings smolder, smoke casting a haze over the air. Croats mingle throughout the compound, some gnawing on corpses, others milling aimlessly.

He flees. His eyes blur. He can’t see. Choking, he can’t breath. He stumbles. Feet tangling together, he falls. He bites his lip, spits out blood.

“Cas?”

He looks up, sees the prophet holding a baseball bat. “Chuck?”

“Here,” Chuck says, helping him up. With the little man’s assistance, he makes his way to a tree and sinks down with a sigh. Chuck joins him. “I guess it’s just us.”

Castiel closes his eyes. The world spins. A chill wracks through him. Just a moment of rest, then he and Chuck can head… somewhere.

A twig breaks.

He opens his eyes. There’s movement in the trees, shuffling and creeping. Croats. They’re coming. He struggles to stand up, but Chuck places a hand on him.

“Wh-what are you doing? We need to go…” He can’t fight Chuck’s gentle touch.

“It’s okay, Cas. You’ve done enough.”

“They’re coming.”

“Don’t worry.”

He’s so tired. He can’t speak. But he can’t stop, not now. Dean would never stop.

“He will understand.” Chuck smiles at him. “It’s time to rest. Come home. Dean’s waiting for you.”

Castiel sleeps.


End file.
